


The Loser

by miss_nettles_wife



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: Crying, Future Fic, Gen, Past Character Death, Smoking, Torture, institutionalization, its a hot mess tbh, outdated medical terms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 00:37:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4586325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_nettles_wife/pseuds/miss_nettles_wife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Charlie?” He asked, softly. Charlie doesn't respond until he's taken another drag of his cigarette. The pause seems to echo in the soft noise of the common room. <br/>“You should have told me you were coming, Lucien.” He said, looking into his lap at the previously unseen photo. “I would have dressed up.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Loser

**Author's Note:**

> ahhhhhhh yeah IDK man. Just a few notes, I know that sociopath isn't a word used in current medicine and stuff, but this is set in the 60s so yah. I also know that Charlie's use of the word is incorrect some of the time, but again, that was on purpose. Just lettin' ya know. Warnings for multiple suicide attempts, institutionalization, torture, character death and lots of Charlie Davis crying. I ain't claiming to be no expert, and I know that a lot of moments are highly implausible but like...W/E. Enjoy.

“He's over there.” The nurse said softly, indicating to the man who was looking out the window, a cigarette burning away in his left hand.   
“Thank you.” Blake smiled, and left her to walk up to him. Charlie didn't respond when he sat in the chair opposite to him. If he squinted his eyes, it might look like things had turned out differently. 

The thick circles of scarring went around both of his wrists, and Blake knows if he were to lift the tan pant leg then he would find the exact same marks on both of his ankles. In the light filtering through the rainy window, it seemed like he might even be remorseful, but sociopaths, he reminded himself, don't feel remorse. 

“Charlie?” He asked, softly. Charlie doesn't respond until he's taken another drag of his cigarette. The pause seems to echo in the soft noise of the common room.   
“You should have told me you were coming, Lucien.” He said, looking into his lap at the previously unseen photo. “I would have dressed up.”  
“You knew I was coming.” Blake replied.   
“I did.” He agrees, “You always come on the same day, at the same time to ask me the same question.”   
“The nurses are telling me that you keep coming up with ways to hide that you aren't taking your medication.”  
“And so what if I am?”  
“That's dangerous.”  
“They make me so nauseous that I want to die.”  
“They're keep you calm.”  
“No. Smoking keeps me calm.” Blake rolls his eyes and looks into Charlie's lap.   
“What's that?”  
“A photo.” He said, and then held it up for Blake to see. 

Embalmed behind glass, the photo was of Lawson and the two of them, Charlie is a blurred figure, hunched over in laughter between the pair of them. Blake used to have the same photo sitting on his mantle, until Danny cut Charlie out of it with a pair of scissors. 

“Danny Parks sends them to me once a year, photos of him. On the back, he writes 'What did you do to Matthew Lawson.'” Charlie said, rubbing his thumb over the image.   
“They all think they know you, Charlie. But I actually know you, and I know that this isn't the real you.”  
“The real me?” He asked, looking up at Blake. Five years of this place showed clearly on a once youthful face. Despite only being thirty two, he had a streak of white growing up at the front of his hair, and crows feet by his eyes. Heavy bags stained under his eyes from chronic lack of sleep.   
“I know that you're haunted by what you saw, haunted enough that you even took the blame for it.” Charlie raised an eyebrow at him. “I know that's why you keep all of those photos. You miss him. You think about him all the time.”  
“You're right.” He agreed, “I do think about him all the time. I think about what it felt like to kick him in the ribs. What his blood felt like on my hands. What he looked like, when he was dying. I think about that a lot. I think about how warm he felt on my fingers and what it felt like to sit on top of him and punch him until I broke his teeth.” Blake looked disgusted. He blinks back what appear to be tears, and puts his hand on top of Charlie's. Charlie pulls his away the way that he always does.   
“Charlie.” He breathes. Charlie looked down at the photo again.   
“I miss that feeling.” He murmurs. Blake looks pale in the face as Charlie takes another drag of his cigarette, and then flicks the ashes into an ash tray on the table in front of him.   
“You screamed when they dragged you in here, after the diagnosis, that you didn't do it. You pulled so hard against the bonds that you almost cut your wrists open. Sounds very innocent to me.”  
“I'm a sociopath. I'm good at manipulating people.” He said, hollowly.   
“I know this is a show.” Blake said, the way he always does.   
“Do you know what they say to me? I'm sick.”  
“I'm a doctor.”  
“I'm sick in the head, to do that to another human being.”  
“Are you?” Charlie offers him no response, just looks down at the photo.   
“Perhaps you are of some use to me, after all, Lucien.” He said, absently.   
“Always happy to help, Charlie.”  
“My headaches get worse.” He told him, “Can you prescribe me something for them?”  
“I did that two years ago, and you took the whole bottle at once.”  
“That was two years ago, Doctor.” He said, “I'm getting better now. Who would have known, that strapping someone to a table and electrocuting them was the best way to fix sociopathy.”  
“They aren't meant to do that to you.”  
“Well you aren't in control when you're not here. I'm at the mercy of the staff.” He scoffs. “Can you fix my headaches.”  
“No, I'm afraid not.” He murmured, and folded his arms over his chest while Charlie stared at him. He eventually looked down to his photograph. “Someone tried so hard to resuscitate him that they broke three of his ribs.”  
“That would be Bill Hobart.”  
“Bill Hobart didn't know how to perform CPR properly in 1962.”  
“Doesn't sound like my problem.” Charlie said, idly, and then put out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table.   
“Aren't you tired of all this?” He asked, as Charlie brought a hand to his chapped lips to gently pull at a piece of skin. Charlie didn't respond, just stared him down for a moment, and then looked down to his photograph.   
“Aren't you?” He asked, softly. “Asking the same questions year after year. “  
“Only when you get tired of lying. I know you, Charlie. I know that you would never hurt him.”  
“They wanted a monster to blame this on, and who would I be if I denied them the pleasure?” He whispered, before passing Blake the photo. “I'm done with this one.” Blake accepted it, and looked at the faces on the slightly worn photograph. “Parks will send me a new one today. Keep it.” Blake put it into his breast pocket, and sighed at Charlie softly. “You promised Mrs Beazley you wouldn't come this year. You're supposed to be home in an hour.”  
“How would you know that?”  
“There's only so much one woman can take. And you've been looking at the clock since you came in.”  
“I hadn't even noticed.”  
“I know. Go home, Doctor. Sometimes, you just have to cut your losses. Sometimes, you can't save people.” Blake looks at him rather intently for a moment.   
“What happened, in 1962, Charlie?” Charlie looked back, eyes hollow and apathetic.  
“I beat Matthew Lawson to death unprovoked.” Blake looks unconvinced, and stands.   
“I'll see what I can do about the ECT.” Charlie doesn't reply, just looks back out the window at the grass. “Do you go out there, often?”  
“I'm not allowed, given that I'm actually serving a life sentence for murder.”  
“I'll see what I can do about that, as well.”  
“Go home, Blake.” There's a pause, and Blake sighs softly, reaching out one hand and putting it on Charlie's face, running his thumb over the three scars that cut though his left eye. Charlie shuts his eyes and moved his head away.   
“What happened to you?” He breathes, and when Charlie offers him no reply, he slowly walks away.   
…

He waits four days for Blake to come though for him. He doesn't, but that's alright, because Charlie had a backup plan anyway, he always did. He told the doctors and nurses that he was simply throwing away the medication that he didn't take, but nothing could be further from the truth. In a stolen plastic cup, he'd hoarded all the medication that he'd been able to hide. He removed it from under the bed, and then sorted the pills into three separate piles. He retrieved water from the sink in the bathroom, and then sat down on the bed, looking at his pills. He decided, at the last moment, to write a note, and if all went according to plan, then he should be in Blake's house next time he opened his eyes.   
…

“I can't believe you brought him into this house.” Danny said, looking at Charlie with unimpressed eyes.   
“He didn't do it. “  
“Then who else would have killed him, huh? Hobart?”  
“Perhaps.”   
“He confessed. You diagnosed him.”  
“I was trying to protect him.”  
“From what?”  
“Himself. So something like this didn't happen.” Blake said, turning to face Danny with angry eyes. “He's tried to kill himself, four times.”  
“Good. He deserves it.” Blake looks like he sort of wants to hit Danny, but he doesn't, simply checks to make sure that Charlie's limp wrist is protected from the handcuffs attaching him to the bed. “What if he kills us too, huh?” Blake sighs thoughtfully, and then gently smooths the blanket over Charlie's chest.   
“That's why he's attached to the bed.”  
…  
“Why am I here, rather then at Lady Elizabeth?” He asked, as Blake shone a small light into his eye.   
“Because I'm the police surgeon and I think this is best for you.”   
“Ah.”   
“Why do you keep trying to kill yourself?”  
“Anything would be better the ECT.” he said, rather grimly. “I'll ask again. Why am I here?”  
“Because clearly having any measure of freedom makes you want to die so someone needs to watch over you.”  
“And that person is you?”  
“Exonerating circumstances. And you mentioned me in your note.”  
“You're the only person who still seems to think I deserve to be treated like a human being. My own mother won't even talk to me.”  
“I thought you were a sociopath?”  
“I am, but even sociopaths can aspire to hold onto family.” Blake nods, and sits down in the chair he'd set up next to the bed.   
“Well, I still want to know what happened in '62.” He told Charlie, grimly. Charlie rolled over as well as he could.   
“And I keep telling you what happened.”  
“You're crazy if you think I believe it”  
“Well I'm not at Lady Elizabeth because I'm sane, and after all, Doctor. You diagnosed me.”  
“At the time, it was to keep you out of prison while I examined the case.”  
“And what did you find?”  
“Evidence to the contrary of Bill Hobart's recount.”  
“And what did Munro do?”  
“Use you as a scape goat.”  
“Why do you insist on being like that?”  
“Like what?”  
“Not believing me.” He sighed. “I've seen specilist after specilist who all say the same thing.”  
“What do they say?”  
“I'm a murderer who is incapable of feeling remorse.”  
“They're all wrong.” Charlie scoffed.   
“No they aren't. You just can't admit that you liked a sociopath.”  
“You're just very accepting of it all.”  
“I killed my friend for no reason, I have to be a sociopath, or I'd have already killed myself from guilt.” Blake scoffs this time, but offers him no reply.   
…

“I hate you.” Danny informed him from the chair next to his bed. Charlie examined him carefully.   
“You're Danny Parks? Huh. I was expecting something more impressive from the photographs you send me.   
“I hate you.” Danny repeated. “I hate policemen who kill their own.”  
“Hobart's taken you under his wing, hasn't he?” Charlie asked.  
“You killed my friend.”  
“I did.”  
“And now I'm going to kill you.”  
“Finally.” Charlie sighed, “Someone who can do it without fucking it up. What are you going to do? Poison me? Bludgeon me with a hammer? Strangle me?”  
“I'm going to shoot you, but not here. Auntie Jean would have to wash the sheets.”  
“How do you intend to move me from the bed?” Danny holds up the the key to the handcuffs.   
“I told the officers outside that I had it for the night, so it's just you and me, Charlie.”   
“Good. A private death, even better. Well you'd better get on with it, Parksy.” Danny spat at him, and then undid the handcuffs.   
“You must really be messed up in the head if you're not scared of dying.”  
“I've been dead for years anyway.” He said, somewhat cryptically. Danny, however, didn't have time for that, and forced him to his feet, and then out to the car.   
..

He drove Charlie out into the bushland surrounding the house, and lined him up against the tree. Charlie set a cigarette between his lips. “Got a light, Parksy?”   
“Why?”  
“One last cigarette.” Danny rolled his eyes, and lined up his shot.   
“Hurry up then, or Blake will realize you've gone.” Danny's hand starts to shake. “Are you going to take the shot?” Charlie asks, moving closer, “Come on!”  
“Shut up!” Danny shouts back,   
“Why, scared someone's gonna hear ya' Parksy?” He asked, intimidating Danny's accent. He moved closer, stooping down so that the gun was resting on the bridge of his nose. “Come on! Do it! I know you want to!” Danny looked towards the house. “Shoot me, come on!” Danny lowers his hand, but Charlie grabs it. “Come on, Parksy, take the shot, here look I'll line it up for you!” Charlie put his hands on either side of the gun, keeping it lined up with his chest. “Shoot me!”  
“I can't!” He screamed, trying to pull his hand away. Charlie kept his hands on the gun, keeping it closer to his chest.   
“Then I will!” He screamed, and somewhere, in the collision, managed to get a shot off. He stumbled backwards, and Danny ran to the house, screaming for Blake.   
…  
After Danny was gone, Charlie sat up and sighed softly. He's managed to shoot himself in the shoulder, which was what he set out to do. He had no intention of dying tonight, not yet anyway. Danny had left the car, making it easy for him to escape the woods, even with only one functioning hand.   
He starts the drive to Munro's flat.   
…  
“You'll never get away with this.”  
“I'm a sociopath who's gone off his medication, Munro, I can't be held accountable for anything I do.” he said, taking a seat on the chair in front of him. Tied to the bed, Munro hardly looked as threatening as he used to. Despite only having one functioning arm (that he'd half heartedly bandaged with Munro's supplies) Charlie was easily able to tie Munro to the bed, and secure him there. He took another drag of his cigarette. He never used to smoke, he thinks, leaning back in his chair, and crossing one leg over the other. “But of coooourse, if you tell me what I want to know, then I might not totally eviscerate you.”  
“We both know that you'd never do anything to help me.”  
“Hm.” Was his only reply, as he leant forward, and ashed his cigarette onto Munro's bare chest. He supposed that it was lucky for him that Munro slept in only pants. He blew smoke into the air, and watched his captive struggle rather pitifully against his bonds. 

“Do you know I struggled so hard against my bonds, that I still have scars?” he asked, Munro, tugging up his sleeve again to reveal the thick scars lining both of his wrists. “I'd like to see you do that to yourself.” He commented, “I'd like you to hurt even slightly as much as I have, that would make me happy.” He sighed, and took another long drag of his cigarette.   
“You're crazy.”  
“I know.” He replied, “And you made sure that everyone else knew a well.” He murmured.   
“Why wait five years?”  
“I wanted you to think you were safe.” Charlie murmured, as he settled back in his chair. “I wanted you to think that you'd gotten away with murder.” Munro scoffs and continues pulling on the sheets Charlie had used to tie him to the bed. “Why?”  
“Why what?”  
“Why did you frame me? You disliked Hobart as much as any of us.”  
“I chose Hobart. I couldn't let them see that my choice was a bad one.”  
“And me?”  
“Well. You were just collateral.” Charlie nods, and then leans forward, and put the cigarette out on Munro's bare chest.   
“I see.” He said, watching the man writher and scream. “Collateral.” Munro just yells, until Charlie grows bored with him and heads to get himself a glass of water. 

He returns when the yelling has turned to pitiful whimpers. “Are you quite finished?” he sighed, before turning to face the window when he heard a car pull up outside. Munro starts to laugh rather manically.   
“You'll never get away with this!”  
“I was expecting Blake later.” He murmured, thoughtfully.   
“They'll throw you into Jail this time, Davis, you'll never be free.”  
“I wasn't hoping to be free.” he replied, taking a sip from his glass of water. “I just wanted you to be dead.” He murmured, producing the gun that Danny had left when he shot himself, and aiming it squarely at Munro's head.

When he's about to pull the trigger, Blake and Danny crash though the door.   
“Charlie it wasn't him he didn't kill Matthew!” Blake shouted, aiming his own gun at Charlie. (And by his own gun, it was actually the gun that belonged to Jean's late husband.)   
“I know, it was me.” Charlie replied, evenly.   
“I know it wasn't you. I know it was Hobart, in a fit of rage. I know you walked in on it, I know you tried your best to save him, I know you performed CPR on him for at least fifteen minutes, I know you broke three of his ribs trying to save him. I know you watched him die. I know you aren't a sociopath.”  
“You should have said that five years ago when I begged you, I begged you to help me.” He hissed, “I cried for you and got down on my knees and you laughed at me.” He said, tears starting to prick his eyes, his throat aching with concealed sobs.   
“I know. I was wrong. I should have trusted you I know that, Charlie put the gun down and we can talk.”  
“About what, Lucien?”  
“I know that I can't give you back the last five years of your life, but I can help you get back the rest of it, but you have to put the gun down, Charlie.”  
“He ruined me.”  
“I know he did.” Blake said, reaching his hand out to Charlie. “But I can help you, I promise.”  
“Help me?” He asked, tears now leaking out of his eyes and down his face. “I needed your help five years ago.”  
“I know. I know I can't make up for what I did, but this isn't the answer, Charlie. What will killing Munro do?”  
“He'll know. Hobart, he'll know. He'll know that he's next.”   
“You need to put the gun down, Charlie. I don't want to shoot you but I will if you don't put it down. I can help you.”  
“And then what? I'll have nothing left. No family. No friends. Just me. At least if I kill him, then he'll have nothing with me.”   
“You have me.” Blake whispered, his hand still out, still right where Charlie could reach it. “But I need you to give me the gun, Charlie.”   
“I have nothing left.”  
“I know.”  
“He ruined me.”  
“I know.”  
“I want to be dead.”  
“I know.” Blake said, his voice cracking slightly. There is a pause that seemed to last a lifetime, as Charlie's fingers twitched on the trigger, and Blake's hand twitches in time, before Charlie set the gun in Blakes hand. Blake threw it across the room, along with his own, and pulled Charlie into his arms as they fell to the floor. 

Charlie cried loudly and heartily into Blake's shoulder with what felt like years of welled up grief and emotion. Blake kept one hand on the back of Charlie's head, not trying to shush him or calm him, just allowing him to sob for his loss openly. At some point, his eyes find Munro's and he's never felt such a burning hate before. 

The crying doesn't stop until the backup he told Danny to call for arrives. Charlie's sobs and almost shrieks seem to match with the sirens. He keeps a firm hold on the shaking man as other officers rush in. Only moves to hold him even closer when he sees Hobart amongst the officers in the room. Even then, the crying doesn't stop, only slows, becomes slightly softer. He keeps crying, and Blake wonders if it will ever stop. Not because he is tired of sitting on the floor holding him. (Charlie deserves everything Blake can give him) but because he doesn't want Charlie to hurt himself. When the officers get tired of waiting, only then, does he try and get Charlie to stand. “We should move.” He murmured, gently pulling Charlie's unresisting form to his feet, and then putting his coat over Charlie's shoulders. Charlie wipes at his wet face and pinches he bottom of his nose in an attempt to clear his airway. Blake passes him a hankerchief, before they follow the officers outside to a blue car waiting to take them to the station.   
…  
It takes a further six months for anything to really change. Munro is arrested, Hobart is arrested but Charlie's not set free, not right away. 

Blake visits everyday, and today is no different. Charlie is sitting in the chair he always sits in, with the photo that Danny sent him sitting in his lap. He's not smoking, and Blake is fairly sure that's a good thing. “Charlie.” He smiled, taking a seat next to him on the couch.   
“Lucien.” He greeted.   
“The doctors tell me you've made a marked improvement.”  
“Good.” He murmured, still not looking up from the photo. Blake looked over at the photo, and gently removes it from his fingers. Charlie follows with his eyes, and then eventually lookes up to Blake's profile with a little smile.   
“I'm going on trial next week.”  
“I know.”  
“They won't let me go.”  
“Where would you go?”  
“I'd find you.”   
“Would you?” Charlie nods. “Will you come, to the trial?”  
“Of course.” Blake smiles.   
“Thank you.” Charlie murmured, and after a second, puts his hand on top of Blake's. Blake changes his hands to cover Charlie's with both of his. It's an improvement, he thinks, as Charlie looks away from the photo, and outside onto the grass again.   
..  
The trial comes, and goes. Munro is given a shorter sentence then Hobart, who is given life. Charlie doesn't seem too upset. Munro never presses any charges against Charlie, and Blake is left wondering if that's because he thought he deserved it. Charlie never tells Blake how he felt about the trial. In fact he never really tells Blake much of anything, but he seemed to be getting better, and Blake decides to count his blessing.   
…   
And then Charlie is put on trial. After a great deal of deliberation, he is declared mentally incompetent, but not a killer.   
…  
He is then put under Blake's guardian ship, which he suspects has less to do with Charlie, and more covering up a previous blunder, but he also can't find it much in it to care. He still has an arm in a sling when he comes back to the Blake house. He still freezes up when Mattie cries and gives him a hug, still answers in a monotone when Mrs Beazley asks what he would like for dinner, still gives Danny a side eye when he sees him, but it's a start.   
…  
“I'm sorry I tried to kill you.” Danny said, from behind him. Charlie didn't even turn to look at him, just took a sip of the tea that Blake had given him.   
“It's fine. I did manipulate you into it, really. I'm a sociopath, that's sort of what we do.”  
“I know you aren't. Blake told me.” Danny said, moving around to face the wayward sergeant.   
“It's fine, Parsky.” He smiled, knowing full well how much that annoyed him.   
“You're a real asshole.” Danny said, after a moment.   
“Sure am.” He offers, 'But really. I don't care. If anything you probably helped me get here.”  
“I know. I just...Wanted to hear you say it.” Danny said, standing awkwardly.   
“Are you going to stand there like a fool or sit and watch television with me?” Charlie asked, after a moment. “You're standing in my way.” There's a moment of silence, before Danny sits next to him. Neither of them say anything about Matthew Lawson, but they don't need to.   
…  
In another life, Charlie might have been ashamed of how much time he spends crying. But now, he simply understands it to be part of his grieving process. He's deeply grateful that Blake is at least understanding. Somehow, that makes rocking up in his bedroom with tear stained cheeks that much easier to bare.

Blake holds him tightly as they sit on the side of his bed, and Charlie does his best not to choke on the thick grief that seems to have been poured so deeply into his lungs. They sit like that for a long time, the only noise he can hear is his own sobs, and the beating of Blake's heart in his chest, calm, soothing. He can feel a hand on the back of his head, smoothing his hair and trying to assure him without words that it was okay. 

Eventually, he calms down enough to sit back and try to breathe without gasping, and every night, Blake takes his face in both hands, and thumbs away the tears from his cheeks, only pausing over the scar briefly. It's never really made clear how he got the scar, but Blake has a pretty good idea. “Do you feel better, Charlie?” He asks, softly. Of course he nods, even though he really doesn't. Blake then pulls back the sheets, and welcomes him into his bed, and holds him close. Charlie holds him back. “He'd be proud of you.” Every night, exactly the same, Blake reminds him that Lawson would be proud of him. And every night he follows it by “Are you?” there's always a pause, and then Blake replied, the way he always does.   
“Of course.”


End file.
